On his way up in the elevator now he takes out his mobile and switches it to vibrate.
When Mary Bolger opens the door of the apartment, Conway immediately sees the distress in her face. She doesn’t say anything, just leads him in and points across the room at Bolger, who is slumped in an armchair.
Then she disappears into the kitchen.
No greeting. No peck on the cheek. No offer of tea or a drink. All the usual formalities dispensed with.
Bolger looks over at him and nods, distress equally evident in his face.
Conway approaches. He stops at the dining table and pulls out a chair. He turns it around and sits in it. Yesterday, down in the Avondale Lounge, it had seemed as if Bolger was looking for trouble. Today it seems – Conway can’t help thinking – as if he might have found it.
There is silence for a while.
Then Conway says, ‘Right. What is it, Larry? Come on.’
Bolger groans.
Conway doesn’t think he is going to have much patience for this. After all, he’s the one who came up with the idea in the first place, kill two birds with one stone sort of thing, and now Bolger is the one, it appears, who has gone and fucked it up.
‘So?’ he says, an edge entering his voice.
Bolger sighs and runs a hand over his stubble. He has always been one of those men who needs to shave in the afternoon. But not today, apparently. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I’ve done something stupid.’
‘O-kay,’ Conway says, and nods, feeling like a priest in the confessional. Then he sees that not only has Bolger not shaved, his eyes look bleary, and his face is a little puffy.
‘Larry,’ he says, ‘have you been drinking?’
‘Yes.’
Conway closes his eyes. He didn’t know Bolger in his drinking days, but he’s heard the stories. And he knows how all of this works. He opens his eyes again.
‘Meeting was that bad, yeah?’
Bolger grunts, then says, ‘This was before he arrived.’
‘What?’
‘I was well on when he got here.’
Oh Jesus.
‘And this stupid thing you did, I assume it wasn’t just having the drink…’
Bolger shakes his head.
‘… it was something you said?’
‘Yeah.’
Whatever Bolger may have said to this journalist, and even if he didn’t say anything at all, the mere fact that he had drink on him, and so early in the day, would be enough of a story in itself – a bullshit tabloid story, but a story nonetheless – to do him irreparable damage.
Conway shrugs. ‘So, what did you say to him?’
Bolger exhales, though it’s more of a shudder. ‘I don’t fucking know, Dave. I don’t remember exactly. We were talking about other stuff he’s done and he said he’d been working on a book, a biography -’
Dave’s heart sinks.
‘- of Susie Monaghan, and -’
‘Larry, don’t tell me you -’
‘I didn’t go into any detail, none at all, but I may have… I may have intimated that -’
‘What?’
‘- that… things weren’t what they seemed.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because we were talking and because I was fucking drunk, that’s why.’
‘Jesus, Larry.’
Bolger leans forward, animated all of a sudden. ‘And do you want to know why I was drunk? Do you? Because I’m tired of all this bullshit is why. I’m tired of sitting around in this fucking hotel, I’m tired of watching TV and pretending I’m writing my memoirs, I’m tired of all the remarks and sly comments I have to read every day in the papers, Larry Bolger this, Larry Bolger that, what now for Larry fucking Bolger? I’m tired of being treated as a joke. I’m tired of arrogant pricks like James Vaughan not returning my calls, I’m -’
Conway holds up a hand. ‘What?’
Bolger looks at him. ‘James Vaughan? That bastard owes me. He did me out of that IMF job and now he won’t talk to me, won’t return my calls.’ He stops here, as something seems to occur to him. ‘But he will return my calls, and you know why? Because this Jimmy Gilroy prick has nothing, nada, he can’t prove a bloody thing. But I can. And if Vaughan doesn’t start showing a little respect, maybe exert a bit of that legendary influence he’s supposed to have, then I might just be forced to -’
‘Jesus Christ, Larry.’ Conway gets up from his chair. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?’
Bolger leans back in the armchair. ‘You know what, Dave? A little bit of respect from you mightn’t go amiss either.’
‘What? Is that a threat? Were you smoking crack as well?’
‘Watch it.’
Conway throws his arms up. This is unbelievable. The irrationality of it is breathtaking. ‘Larry,’ he says, a slightly more pleading tone to his voice than he’d like, ‘yesterday you were worried about some small item in the paper, worried that someone might start asking questions, and today you’re ready to, what, blackmail James Vaughan? And if that doesn’t work, what? Is there a plan here? Go on fucking Liveline? You have to see how insane this is.’
‘I don’t bel-’
‘You have to see that not only would James Vaughan not allow it, I wouldn’t allow it, I couldn’t. I’m in enough trouble as it is, you drag me into this shit, and I’d be destroyed.’
Bolger looks at him and shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing here. Allow? You couldn’t allow it? You see… you see, this is what I’m talking about, and frankly I’ve had enough. I’m not putting up with any more of it.’ He bangs his fist on the side of the armchair. ‘I was the fucking Taoiseach for Christ’s sake.’
Conway turns around and runs a hand over his hair.
He takes a deep breath.
This is a nightmare.
He wants to just walk out of here, but he can’t. He has to talk Bolger down, has to bring him back from the precipice.
Plus, he has to find out what Jimmy Gilroy knows.
‘OK,’ he says, turning around again, ‘OK,’ and then adds, in an attempt to defuse the tension, ‘Larry, any chance I could get a cup of coffee or something?’
Jimmy sees from the caller ID that it’s Phil Sweeney. For a second or two he toys with the idea of letting it go into message. But that would just drag things out. He’d have to call him back at some point.
He answers it.
‘Phil?’
‘Jimmy. What’s going on?’
‘Er… what do you mean?’
‘I mean what’s going on? I heard something happened. I got a message. But I’ve been in meetings all day.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. It’s something to do with Larry, isn’t it? Tell me.’
Jimmy hesitates, but then decides to get straight into it. What’s the point in being coy, he thinks, or in dissembling? He’ll just tell it straight, describe what happened, because Sweeney is probably going to ridicule him anyway. Then, in hearing himself tell the story, Jimmy realises afresh – with each passing word, with each new detail – just how ridiculous it actually is.
How ridiculous he is.
And how he’ll fully deserve to be ridiculed.
But -
Curiously.
That isn’t what happens.
‘Holy fuck, Jimmy.’
‘What?’